It's a Ticket Drawing for City Winery Chicago!
July 25, 2014
Our new friends at City Winery Chicago, a 300-seat concert hall and winery in the West Loop neighborhood, are offering three-pair of tickets each to Guy Forsyth's Hot Nut Riveters & the Appleseed Collective on 8/7, John McCutcheon on 8/8 and Carlene Carter with Jodee Lewis on 8/9. To enter the drawing, send an email to email@example.com by Sunday, Aug. 3. Names will be left at the door and this is probably better for people living in the Chicago area, because transportation is not included!
In your email to firstname.lastname@example.org, include your name, phone number and email address. Your phone number will only be used in case we need to contact you for this drawing. Please put Forsyth, McCutcheon or Carter in the subject line!
Posted by Ann VerWiebe at 5:27 PM
The Family Roots of Conjunto: Flaco Jimenez & Max Baca
July 17, 2014
by Devon Leger, KITHFOLK
Flaco & Max. Legends & Legacies.
2014. Smithsonian Folkways.
Flaco Jimenez and Max Baca are two of the most famous artists in Texas Mexican (Tejano) conjunto music. But they're also both the sons of legends as well. Flaco's father, Don Santiago Jimenez, was a pioneering accordionist, singer, and songwriter in Tejano music, and Max's father, Max Baca, Sr, was also a great accordionist and bandleader, though based out of his native New Mexico, rather than Texas. Both Max and Flaco are actually third-generation accordionists, as their grandfathers played as well. For both artists, this is a family business, so it's a real pleasure to hear them both going back to their family repertoires on their new release on Smithsonian Folkways: Legends & Legacies. Together, Flaco and Max make up the classic duo that is at the heart of all conjunto music: the three-row button accordion and the bajo sexto (a large stringed instrument somewhat similar to the 12-string guitar). Both artists, Flaco on accordion and Max on bajo, are considered among the very best in the world and have become ambassadors both for their music and for the instruments. So what you hear on this album is the very best Tejano conjunto music there is. Here it's gloriously simple, but also devilishly complex, tied to the family roots that sustain it, and freed from the glitz and glamor of modern conjunto music (not that there's anything wrong with a little glam in your accordion music!). The songs are rustic and heartfelt, drawn from their fathers' songs, but also from classics of the genre. The songs, like most country music, are about lost loves, unrequited loves, and the love of drink.
The album is also an ode to fathers and to families, with great stories about how both Flaco and Max grew up in the dancehalls of the American Southwest, surrounded by seminal music making. Growing up in San Antonio, Flaco remembers his father playing Friday through Sunday night at the Gaucho Garden and working as a janitor during the day to support his kids. "He always wanted me around," says Flaco in the liner notes, "and I wanted to be around him, because I loved the accordion, I loved how he played. I used to check out everything. I took care of him in some ways, and I packed his accordion in his Model A car. Then afterward, I started growing up a little more, and he decided to take me to where he played because I think he knew that I was ready to perform. It was like him taking me to Disneyland or something, you know, for me to go with him to where we played! It was a spontaneous thing, because I was just sitting on the side of him because he was playing at the dances." Eventually, Flaco got invited up onstage and cause quite the fervor in the joint with his accordion playing, though he was too small to reach the mic (they had to put a case of Lone Star Beer under him to get him to reach). He was only seven years old.
Max grew up in New Mexico, and his father was responsible for pioneering much of the New Mexican Hispanic music that still exists today, though there clearly have always been ties with the Tejano community in Texas. I interviewed Max Baca over the phone at his house in San Antonio a little while back, and he talked about the fascinating story of his father's music and his father's influence on "chicken scratch" music (the music of Southwest Native Americans). Here's an excerpt from that interview with Max Baca:
"I remember as a kid growing up, playing at different festivals and events, especially the fiestas at the Indian reservations. My dad would play and I was just a kid, I was maybe 6, 7 years old. I was tagging along with my dad, he had me go with him to gigs and by the time that I was 8, I was already playing the bajo, I was already playing the bass. I was actually my dad's bass player, and that's how I got into the music. My dad would say, "Okay, here's the bass guitar and learn it! I need a bass player. We need you. We're not going to pay another musician, I'd rather pay you." We all contributed: me and my brother were part of my dad's band as well, plus my uncle. It was kind of a family band type thing. My uncle played the drums and my other uncle played the bajo. I was the bass player and my brother was the back-up accordion player for my dad. My brother would play accordion and my dad would grab the trumpet. It was pretty cool, a different sound, accordion and trumpet. They would sound beautiful together, harmonizing."
Living in such a multi-cultural society, there were many ties to Southwest Native American culture. In blood, but also in music. Here's Max on his father's influence on chicken scratch music:
"I remember going to festivals, or fiestas rather, when I was playing in the afternoon and then we'd always play the "baile" or the dance at night. I remember there was a couple of [Native] accordionists, and they would go to my dad and my dad would actually teach them a few pointers here or a few songs and that's how they got started in the "chicken scratch" scene. Now there's a lot of Native Indian chicken scratch. In Tucson, there's quite a bit. My dad was a big influence on that because he had his band. His band was really popular and he had a big band. He had 2 accordion players, he had 2 sax players, he would grab the trumpet and would play with the sax players and they would have a kind of orchestra with the conjunto, it's cool. Some of these Native Indians would pick up on it and before you know it, when I was maybe 12 years old, and we'd go back to play these festivals and they would be getting a band together and, of course they would never sing the songs because it's another language. So, I noticed they would just play instrumentals and they would play the same songs and they would play them but instrumentally without the words. It was interesting and it was really cool and I think that's pretty much how they do it nowadays too."
"My dad was New Mexican, Indian, he had a little bit of these different influences... My dad, for some reason, he was a polka freak. He came out with polkas that were off the wall. Flaco Jimenez loved my dad's polkas. They were just different. They had this really cool twist to them. They'd sound hard. hey were simple but they sounded kind of hard. It was a technique that he would use. Really catchy polkas and really, really catchy music. It's funny because the native Indians, when they would dance my dad's polkas, they would dance like the Germans. They would jump up and down, instead of like the Texans. The Texans would dance really slow, in a circular motion, clockwise and shuffling their feet but the native Indians would dance. They would actually jump; they would hop to my dad's polka music! It was different. I have seen some of the German polka dancers. They hop like that. They jump and have little hops with it."
Native Indian dancers, accordion riffs with no words, polkas you can't stop thinking about, songs you can't stop drinking to, and Germans lurking at the edges of the music, this was the roots of Tex-Mex accordion and bajo sexton, and these glory days live on in Flaco Jimenez and Max Baca. Long may they reign as the kings of conjunto!
This article first appeared in the Summer 2014 issue of KITHFOLK, a digital roots music magazine based in the US. For more information and to read additional articles: www.kithfolk.com
Posted by Linda Fahey at 2:00 PM
On Race and Folk Music: Classic African-American Songsters and Keb' Mo'
July 15, 2014
by Kim Ruehl, originally published in NoDepression.com, July 11, 2014
I've been listening to a little bit of Keb' Mo' recently and a whole lot of the Smithsonian Folkways Classic African-American Songsters collection, thinking about the strange connection I have to African-American storytelling traditions. Strange because I'm a white lady who grew up in a small self-segregated Southern town.
As a student of literature, I gravitated toward African-American stories. Ralph Ellison, James Baldwin, Zora Neale Hurston, Toni Morrison, Alice Walker -- these were my heroes during young adulthood. People who met an oppressive, confusing, scary, often violent world, not with anger or fear or violence in return. They met it with stories. Stories that shooed away the idea that black voices didn't carry important ideas. Stories that answered the oppression of black lives by lifting up black beliefs. Stories that, by virtue of being told, broke silences with strength and the command: "Listen."
Toni Morrison, for example, has said she won't write white privilege into her books. It lives in the real world; we don't need it in stories. Stories are there to give us an idea of how much greater we could be if we exercised a little imagination, a little will, a little defiant hope.
As a student of music, it took me a while longer to come around to African-American stories. Maybe it was my classical upbringing, maybe something else. After finding folk music, when faced with Leadbelly, I chose Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger. When encountering Big Bill Broonzy and Brownie McGhee, I opted for the Carter Family and Charlie Poole.
I remember walking through the Marigny in New Orleans shortly after I moved there, taking in the color of the houses, recognizing the connection with the Carribbean and African influences, moving through Congo Square and wandering along the river. Walking through the music. Hearing the black banjo and the black trumpeteer. Watching the sax player in the Quarter, under an awning, in the rain. A light switch flicked on and I suddenly understood there would be none of this music I loved without the music I had been locking out. There was more music than I could ever have imagined, behind the music I knew. The music that sings through the storm, that flits along in the throes of a gale. Music that, by virtue of having melody, commands: "Listen."
Make me a pallet on your floor...
I learned that one from Lucinda Williams. I could say, "what a shame," but a doorway is a doorway, as long as it leads you somewhere you need to go. The song went through a half-dozen recordings and thousands of performances before the Weavers brought it into the mainstream, which is to say the awareness of white folks. Since then, it's gone everywhere from Gillian Welch to Sharon, Lois, and Bram's elephant show, where it no doubt lost all meaning. If you Google the lyrics, the first result that comes up is for Gillian Welch lyrics. Like she wrote it. (That would have been W.C. Handy.)
But, listening to Brownie McGhee sing it on this Smithsonian collection, you sail down the paved highway that ends at the dirt road. You know where you're headed. You know what this song is about. As smooth and fluid and easy as McGhee's guitar picking flows, you know this is a song about being down and out, and wanting to run away.
"Don't Let Your Deal Go Down," now that's one you probably know from Flatt & Scruggs or good old Charlie Poole, who had a hit record with it in 1925. I can't find the specific origins of the song, but it came from African-American communities and was about the cardgame Georgia Skin. Here, it's sung by John Jackson of Virginia -- a guy who made his way in music by playing it in his living room for friends and family. Suddenly the folk boom happened in the mid-20th Century and Jackson became a darling of the Washington D.C. folk and blues community. By that time "Don't Let Your Deal Go Down" was probably close to a century old, but we count it as a 1925 hit for Poole.
Keb' Mo', meanwhile, picks up these traditions and updates them with a kind of humor and accessibility that you just won't see from any other contemporary performers, except maybe Todd Snider. "You made me a brand new man / but I like the old me better," Mo' sings. And, even though it's just him and the band, it feels like a party in the room. Like a crowd of people has just moved on in, clawing past the command to "Listen" and is instead demanding: "Dance."
As I've mentioned before, dancing is freedom. Dancing to music is embracing humanity. It's meeting someone else's ideas and letting them flow through your own body. It's giving space and movement to the voice of a stranger. It's an agreement, an endorsement. The thing about dancing is you can't do it if you think about it too much. You must realize the thing this person is singing, is something you have in common. It's the essence of life, of living freely.
Keb' Mo' no doubt spent a little time in his formative years listening to Jackson or Broonzy or McGhee, or some of these other "songsters." He's carrying that pallet, so to speak, and he's making it his stage. There is absolutely no finer artist of his caliber, doing what he's doing.
Anyhow, I've been ruminating on all these things since Terry Roland posted in this space, quoting Otis Taylor: "When a songwriter is white, he's called a singer-songwriter. When he's black, he's called blues." I would submit that this is because it's listeners doing the naming. Listeners call it "singer-songwriter" or "blues." Listeners or companies, marketing departments, record store organizers. The musicians have always just called it music. Mother Maybelle learned to play guitar in a way that's now called the Carter Scratch from an African-American friend. Woody and Pete were students of Leadbelly and McGhee. They wanted to tell a story like those guys could tell it. They wanted to get inside the song like those guys did. Seeger soared in his career, not by appropriating African-American spirituals, but by opening doors to them and inviting audiences in.
It's difficult for me, this -- writing about African-American music while naming the cultural divide. Perhaps that's why it's so infrequently done by Americana/folk critics. There's an impulse when discussing these recordings, to ignore racial history in the U.S. and just talk about the music -- the notes and melodies, the rhythms. To put aside the stories which led to these things. But folk music is borne of the daily life of its makers.
You cannot write a song like "A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall" unless you're a white midwestern young man frustrated by the headlines and the direction you see your parents' generation steering its socio-political endeavors. You cannot make "Pastures of Plenty" unless you are an Okie who's been set to ramble due to oppressive dust storms, facing extreme poverty during an economic crash. You cannot make a song like "Make Me a Pallet on Your Floor" without living in a world that won't allow you to stop at any hotel you feel like stopping at, washing up in any bathroom on the side of the road. It's not a song about the Jim Crow South, but it's a song that was borne of it. It's not a song of oppression and racism, but the determination to sing it is an assertion of personal freedom in the face of daily reality that disallows absolute assertion of your personal freedom.
It's impossible to ignore that there is a cultural experience in these songs that is not my cultural experience. It's impossible to listen without hearing our shared history and the embarrassment innate in the knowledge that Woody and Pete will forever be heroes and Broonzy and McGhee and Jackson are, at least now, barely known outside of certain circles. That Keb' Mo's extraordinary new album BluesAmericana has yet to be discussed in this space, whether that has anything at all to do with race or whether the audience of this site simply isn't aware he released it, both are results of the same historical institutions. And, anyway, it's what I do -- talk about the context of the music, the stories that led to it. It's my schtick as a critic. I must admit how natural it is for me to turn on and enjoy the exceptional musicality in these recordings, and how clumsily I stumble over the best words to use, to discuss it here. The only thing I can think is to name the dominance of white voices in American folk music and the fact that, as Taylor nailed, the listener is inclined to recognize white singer-songwriters as "singer-songwriters" and African-American singer-songwriters as "blues" artists, whether or not what they're playing is actually the blues*.
All I know is I can't stop hearing, can't stop listening, can't stop dancing.
*Townes Van Zandt said there are two kinds of music: the blues and "Zippadeedoodah."
Posted by Linda Fahey at 11:23 AM